


don juan triumphant

by rahelawriter



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Ascians (Final Fantasy XIV), Beds, Blindfolds, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Reader, Masks, Operas, POV Female Character, Penis In Vagina Sex, Pet Names, Public Sex, Sex, Singing, Stripping, There's A Tag For That, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 05:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18514744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rahelawriter/pseuds/rahelawriter
Summary: What warm, unspoken secrets will we learn, beyond the point of no return…?





	don juan triumphant

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elebuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elebuu/gifts).



> Written for my dear friend Elebuu, who I thank for her support. ILU Jyera. <3

Despite the heat, you feel a chill.

Here you sit, in the middle of a stage suggesting the image of a lavish room, keenly aware of each and every sensation and detail. Velvet curtains, red and black, lining the proscenium and draping all around. The flaming torches standing in each corner. The blazing spotlights pressing down upon you. Each trio of eyes in the audience is staring at you in hushed expectation. 

For you are the naïve heroine in this play; innocent and open-hearted, yet steadfast and determined. With your long hair falling over your bare shoulders, you are oblivious to how tempting you look, kneeling atop the bed’s lush duvet, in naught but your delicate negligee, soft curves straining against the fabric barely laced together by a single string. And you feel every part the wide-eyed ingénue; for here you are, trapped in the clutches of a sinister villain who is in every way your opposite. 

He is cruel and brutal; you are kind and gentle. He is an arrogant yet charismatic demon; you are a humble yet silent angel. He is deathly cold darkness; you are lively warm light.

Slow, muted thumping of leather footfalls behind you. He is only heard because he wants to be heard. The steps grow closer until they stop, right at the edge of the bed just behind you. You hold your breath for uncountable seconds, before feeling his weight leaning over you, his breath tickling locks of your hair.

_ “Oh, dear, dear, dear, what’s all this…?”  _ He tuts, while a silk-gloved hand laid itself on yours, making you tense up with a shiver. _ “Look at you. Such a pretty little lamb you are, obediently playing the role set out for you, yet here you are with stage fright. This will not do at all…” _

His hand then slowly ghosts up the bare skin of your arm, raising the flesh along its path. Biting your lip and feeling your face turn flush, you are torn between the temptation of his touch, and the anxiety in your mind about how this must look to all the other eyes upon your trembling body that were not his.

His silken fingers press upwards against your chin, tilting your face upwards, prompting you to open your eyes and look at his bemasked face. His grin is delicious poison, and yet the spotlight he obscures seem to give him a beautiful halo. As if to answer you, he chuckles and purrs,  _ “Knowledge dictates expectation, and expectation colors perception. Thus do they perceive not I, but the unfortunate actor fellow slumbering just offstage. But think not of him, nor anyone else. The only one you ought to be concerned about pleasing is myself. Think of me, only of me...” _

As if to aid you in carrying out his whispered command, he holds out to you the deep crimson sash usually worn under his coat: for you, a blindfold… Understanding right away, you nod silently. Slowly, deftly, he takes the silk in both hands and brings it up to your eyes; the last thing you see is his golden gaze, gleaming with approval, and then your vision is enfolded within red darkness. He takes his time wrapping the cloth around your head, but you feel his touch lingering after each end is together. Fingertips lightly trace the wing of your jaw, caressing your throat until thumb and forefinger are just pressing into either side of your throat. You whimper, and feel him laughing through his breath against your ear; you don’t need your eyes to sense the  _ sneer _ lifting the corners of his lips.

Faintly comes the sound of cloth being pulled off skin and tossed aside. Then comes his ice-cold, ungloved hand; tugging your hair to one side, leaving him free to mouth at the newly-exposed skin. That hand then trails down your spine, taking a pause to knead at and appreciate the curve of your backside, then slinking down your legs. He lifts the skirt of your dress, hiking it up to bunch around your waist. Moments later a gelid finger teases across your slit, slick with your nectar, before he slowly,  _ leisurely _ dips the digit in between your lips. You tense and whimper, biting your lip at the intrusion, he’s so much larger than you, even his single finger seems to stretch you out…

_ “Why so silent, little lamb…?” _ He croons, almost innocently as he crooks the finger inside you. Leaning over you, he palms at your breasts that heave with your every labored breaths, and whispers to you,  _ "Don’t be shy, now. You need not hide that beautiful voice of yours… Sing for me, my sweet angel." _

On that note, a second finger slips into you, stretching you further as he flexes and twists them, intent on drawing more than just sharp breaths out of you. But even through the blindfold, still you feel all these eyes watching you, and find yourself mute; unable to moan or cry out, or let out anything louder than a whimper. A curt huff of air in your ear, as well as the slowing pace of his hand, indicates his displeasure with your continued quietude.

_ “Very well, then; if I must draw it out myself…” _ he sneers, in that low, sardonic fashion that warns of his growing annoyance. You gasp as his fingers slip out of you, leaving you feeling empty and abandoned. But the feeling does not last long, as he effortlessly scoops your body up from the bed and into his arms. Helplessly small in his arms, you let him carry you to the downstage edge of the bed, where he sits himself down with you straddling his lap. Large hands come down to squeeze at your waist, kneading their way upwards until they find your arms, and he pushes them upwards until you understand where he wants them to be. Reaching up and backwards, you hook your arms together around his neck, exposing your chest to his touch. 

Slowly and easily he takes his time pulling loose the string lacing your negligee together until your gown is undone and falls open. The crowd gasps as he strips you naked and coaxes your legs apart. In turn, his body beneath you shifts; his robe dissolving, silk turning to skin, a burning rod of flesh rising to meet your core.  _ “Have you not been craving this chance? To sing with your own voice?” _

Was he demanding you be more responsive to his ministrations? Or… Was he asking your consent that he continue them? It did not matter, for your soft, breathy answer to both meanings was, “Y-yes…”

_ “Then make your pleasure known.” _

He plunges into you, his breach near splitting you in twain; the sleeping bud burst into bloom, and a high, long cry bursts from your throat. Without are his ice-cold hands spread your thighs apart, but within is a dark, raging fire flooding your soul. No orchestra could hide the staccato slaps of flesh as you float and fall atop his lap. No soprano could match your moaning, your aria that is drawn out from his thrusts, his caresses, his lips. All is heady pleasure and toxic passion and blissful rapture in his fastidious grip.

_ “Sing for me, my angel,”  _ comes his rich susurration, “ _ Sing for your patron.” _

_ Yes, your patron… He who allowed you to reach the heights that you have… He who completed you, the villain without whom you would not be a hero. Your Emperor, your composer and conductor, your sun, Your Radiance…! _

_ “SING FOR ME…!” _

At his command, your voice reaches a crescendo: an overflowing cadenza that echoes and reverberates across the theatre. He braces you in his arms as you hold the long, sustained note. You tremble and tremor, no longer caring who but him might hear your ecstasy. Here you sang, completely in the dark phantom’s thrall, and he sent you tumbling back over the final threshold, falling,  _ falling…! _

You lean on nothing, falling back to hit the duvet, panting and heaving for breath. A loud, sustained wave of applause rose from the audience, a chorus of bravas; a standing ovation for your 'performance.' The dream is ended; your nightgown is back on your body, the silken blindfold vanishes, and the sight that greets your bleary eyes as you open them is the searing, incandescent spotlight. The only trace remaining of Solus zos Galvus was the lingering ghost of his flesh where you had been joined. Squinting through the brightness, you see several small, dark shapes fluttering freely.

A shower of black rose petals. And suddenly, you noticed something on the duvet beside you: a single, jet bloom, decorated with a ribbon.

_ Your chains are still mine, you belong to me. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> (Feel free to come to https://rahelauillces.tumblr.com/ if you'd be interested in talking to me about potential comms.)


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